


(even hollowed out) we are a fortress

by Myrime



Series: let us rise again [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Presumed Dead, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, They are actually talking, Tony Stark Has A Heart, goodbye videos, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 11:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrime/pseuds/Myrime
Summary: "Maybe we've all made mistakes and I don't want to leave it like that. We could make things better.""What would we know about better?"After Siberia, when Tony is presumed dead, Steve doesn't hesitate long and goes home where he finds Tony slightly worse for wear but alive. In true Rogers' fashion, he refuses to leave until they have talked. For once, they do so without shouting at each other or starting another war.





	(even hollowed out) we are a fortress

 Tony thought about leaving letters. Actual pen-and-paper letters. All fingers and ink and baring his soul – no matter that he still is not sure whether he has one. Steve might have appreciated it – and maybe that is why he does not, in the end, because is he not over trying to impress or at least endear himself a little bit to their resident golden boy? He thought he was, but old habits die hard, especially ones cultivated since he had first heard Howard compare him to the glory that is Steve. Guess he should not be surprised it never quite stopped hurting either. But this is not about pain or old grievances. This is about saying goodbye the right way in case he does not manage to do that in person.

Any of them could die any day. It is in the job description, really, but Tony has been waiting for it since Afghanistan. Since the second chance he still thinks he does not deserve. So, life has gotten worse, but it has also gotten better.  He feels he owes them to tell them as much.

So one night, not knowing how many days he has gone without sleep – he has been slipping more often again since Ultron, especially without JARVIS keeping him in check – he sits down, puts a camera in DUM-E’s hand and pours out his heart. There is no coffee and no alcohol involved, no notes, no second thoughts. Honesty is something best kept private, Howard has taught him that, along with most other life lessons Tony has never quite managed to shake. The amount of honesty he plans – or does _not_ plan – on putting into this is even reserved for something one step farther. What will it matter if he has bared his soul if they will know only once he is dead? He will have told the truth, but he will not have to live with the aftermath.

He carefully foregoes wearing any of his usual armor, be it a suit of cloth or metal, but stays in his wrinkled work clothes, covered in grease, his hair standing every which way. Taking a seat in front of DUM-E, he gently nudges the robot’s arm in the right direction.

“Start recording,” he says and takes a deep breath. Then, he talks.

* * *

The mails appear over night and without warning. Those of them who are brave enough to compare notice that the premise is the same for each of them.

_If you are reading this, I am dead. Though I should hope you know that already, because dying alone sounds like it would suck and I always wanted to go out with a bang. Where better to do that than with the Avengers?_

_Until we meet again, Tony_

* * *

Steve does not notice that he is trembling until he misses the play button three times. He frowns at his hands, not able to comprehend what he has just read because – because Tony is fine, he has to be. Last time he saw him – the bunker, the cold, the blood, the flickering arc reactor– he was alive, shouting out a challenge. Their fight is, admittedly, blurred in his memory, a mix of rage and fear and the burning need to protect his oldest friend. But Tony was _fine_. He always is.

And now this message. A week after everything had shattered beneath their fingers. Days after Bucky has decided to go back under, making this even more terrifying. Because if the man he has fought this war for is gone, and the man he fought against is too, what does that make him, what does that make this ruin they have left?

Steve does not know what he is expecting as he finally hits play, but it is not Tony as he is in his fondest memories. Dishevelled and laid back, exhausted but driven by the fire of working with what he loves best. There is more to his posture though, a heaviness he always protested with every breath he took.

“ _Are we recording?_ ” Tony asks, looking tired, bags under his eyes, shirt wrinkled and stained with grease. He looks so _real_ that Steve feels he would only have to reach out and they would touch. “ _DUM-E, hold that camera higher. Don’t look at me like that. Steady now._ ” Even the banter, familiar as it is, has something reluctant clinging to it, almost drowned out by Tony’s busy, almost flurried, motions, but still undeniably there.

“ _Cap_ ,” he starts, then grimaces, wincing at the name. “ _Steve._ ” Another exhale. This one slower as if Tony did not know how to proceed. Steve has never seen the other man hesitate; he has always had a witty one-liner ready or dished out words with a sharp tongue. In their line of work there is no room for hesitation.

“ _I should have gotten a drink for this.”_ Tony looks around as if he expects a bottle to appear out of thin air, only to slump in his seat when nothing happens. _“Oh, don’t frown like that, Steve. If you’re seeing this, I’m dead, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Also, we both know I won’t die of liver failure. Not when my heart and lungs will give out way before that. As far as vices go, I could have chosen worse. Smoking, now that would have messed things up. Nothing like – but that’s not what I’m here to tell you._ ”

Tony interrupts his rambling, seeming almost embarrassed by it. He glances between the camera and his hands, where he fidgets mindlessly with a screwdriver. Steve half expects him to stop the recording right there. A lack of words does not look good on the genius. But the video goes on for longer than these thirty seconds, so Steve hopes there is more coming. Because as bad as the news about Tony’s _death_ is, it would be infinitely worse to be left with nothing else. Especially because of how they parted.

“ _I didn’t do this the first time around, you know. Or any of the other times. When I was dying, I mean. The poisoning, the wormhole, the Mandarin.”_ Tony shrugs, like he has always seemed to shrug off the bad things happening to him. _“I figured I’m always talking too much anyway, who wants to listen to more of the same? The thing is, I’m usually not saying very much, and maybe this is my chance to remedy that. I know that we’re not seeing eye to eye, but maybe I’ll manage to make you hear what I_ mean _for once._ ”

For a moment there, Tony looks incredibly frustrated – although it is impossible to say with whom. Steve wants nothing more than to answer, wants to say that he always wanted to listen, tried to. The truth is, the two of them have never been good at communicating, even more so lately. They could have done better. Should have.

“ _I consider you my friend,”_ Tony says, sounding so earnest that there is no doubt that he is speaking the truth. It sends a shock of _something_ through Steve because he has heard that same tone, although tinged with a lot more desperation, only last week when Tony was hurting _._

 _“I consider all of you my friends. Maybe something more. Something like family, although I’ve got no experience with that. Rhodey used to say that I wouldn’t recognize something good happening to me if it hit me in the face. But, well, believe me, I have experience with being hit, and I did see you._ ”

Steve wonders when Tony recorded this. Ages ago, it must be, when they had not yet gone to stand on different sides of a self-made battlefield. When there was still trust between them, and tenderness.

“ _Truth be told, I couldn’t have imagined any of this. You moving in with me seemed like a stupid little boy’s dream._ Get the heroes to live with you, it will be fun. _But you grew into something more than that._ ” He waves his hands dismissively, not quite smirking. “ _I’m not the sappy type, but I think of you as family. So, thanks for bearing with me, I guess._ ”

It is painful to hear Tony say that word so reluctantly. _Family_. Of course that is what they are, Steve thinks, even as a voice in the back of his head corrects him mercilessly. What they _were_. Before they beat each other to death.

“ _I get what my father saw in you. He’s sang your praises for as long as I remember and back then I never_ wanted _to get it, because if he told the truth about you then he was right about me, too. And who would ever want to admit that about themselves?”_ Tony grins, the way a drowning man might, meeting his fate. _“But he was right and you_ are _a good man. No matter how often we’ve clashed, it was a privilege to have known you._ ”

Would he still say that now, after what they did to each other?

“ _Sometimes I like to think that you make me better too, that some of your goodness could rub off on me. That’s nonsense, I know. A bad egg stays bad, no matter how nicely you paint it. But you, all of you, gave me a purpose other than making my shareholders richer every year.”_

Steve has never told Tony how he admired his capacity to work basically three full-time jobs – SI, both the Avenging and equipping them with everything they could need – and not burn out, and still work with the press, run galas and organize charities. He never even thought to question it, because Tony was always in motion, always working. Anything else would have seemed wrong. Doing all that, how could he still doubt himself? Steve counts that down as another one of his mistakes. As team leader, he should have made sure Tony knew his value.

_“Putting on the suit, I thought I could right some of my wrongs, atone for years of making the world a worse place. But the Avengers – is it too much to say that you gave me hope that I am not as far gone as I thought? So thank you for giving me a chance, despite our differences. Thank you for turning the Tower and the compound into a home.”_

Tony cuts himself off there and cocks his head to the side, staring into the distance. He stays like that for a moment, frowning to himself, then snaps back into the presence.

_“I obviously don’t know how I died, but I’m sure it was my own fault. I bet I didn’t listen to you. Changed a plan on short notice without letting you know properly. I hope I didn’t fly through another wormhole or, you know, have someone else betray me. But I can guarantee that you have given me the best rest of my life that I could have asked for.”_

Tony smiles, right through the camera at Steve, causing the words to hit all the harder. _I betrayed you_ , Steve thinks and cannot breathe. It is such an unbelievably cruel thing to hear this now, after everything has been torn apart – essentially turning Tony’s last words to him into a mockery.

“ _Thank you, Steve. Take care of our team. If anyone can, it’s you._ ”

So that is what it feels like to kill a friend. Steve cannot be sure whether it was his hands that actually took Tony’s life, but even if someone else had stepped in and finished the job, it is still his fault. They used to have each other’s back, before they turned on each other. And if Tony died after Steve left him in that bunker, beaten and alone, then his death is on him.

His throat constricts painfully. Steve cannot do anything but stare at the frozen picture of Tony leaning forwards, wearing a smile for DUM-E but which feels nonetheless still directed at him. Trembling worse than before, Steve hits play again, choking up when Tony’s voice comes on, almost carelessly open, carrying a warmth seldom projected in real life.

 _That shield does not belong to you. You don’t deserve it_ , he hears inside his mind and wonders how these two voices can come from the same person.

 _So was I,_ Tony says as Steve goes still, watching and listening until he can do neither because Siberian snow is clouding his mind.

He stays there until morning dawns, then he stands, joints cracking, and packs his things, only necessities. T’Challa lets him go without protest, makes it clear he is welcome back, although Steve is not sure he deserves it.

He knows where he is going, even though he does not know what he will find. It somehow feels like plunging into the ice again. He has made his way out of that once before. Now, if only he could do that again.

* * *

“Boss,” FRIDAY’s voice in his ear is its own kind of absolution, popping up as soon as his headset connects to the tower’s systems as he lands. She is the only welcome-home-committee he can stand right now. “You are back.” Tony knows the sound of someone waiting to deliver bad news, even though her relief is almost enough to mask the reluctance.

“What is it, Fri?” he asks, intent on getting it over with, even though he really just wants to take a long shower and sleep for two days straight. Not that he ever has, no matter how low he had gotten. Sleep has not been a good place for years.

“You were absent,” – missing, unaccounted for, presumed dead – “for eight days and twelve hours.” She stops, waiting for him to get her point maybe, but Tony is too tired to guess, so he keeps silent. “Protocol Dead Man triggered after seven days.”

Tony does not move. The stillness taking hold of him keeps the air locked inside his lungs, still bruised and aching. Blood rushes in his ears, but to him it is the sound of water closing in over his head, of cold seeping in through the cracks of the armor, metal clashing on metal.

“What?” he gasps, half-surprised when he does not find himself drowning. Oxygen floods his airways almost unwillingly.

FRIDAY does not repeat her message. She is learning, quicker maybe than JARVIS had, but she is still raw, undefined where he fit himself like a glove against all of Tony’s edges.

The damage is done, however, and he wishes she would have been less diligent, would have let him come in from the landing pad first, into the hollow shell that was once a home. Out here he is utterly unprotected. Even while far away from other people, he has the feeling that everyone can see him here, flayed open by a lifetime of bad decisions and misplaced sentiments.

“You sent them out?” he asks after half an eternity has passed.

He has never appreciated the honesty of code more when all she says is, “Yes.”

Humans always grasp for excuses. Their tongues are built for lies. She could have said, _All I did was follow your instructions,_ or _You set Protocol Dead to activate automatically if we were to lose connection,_ and _I could not have known that you were still alive._ Much less that these goodbyes were to people who do not exist anymore. Friends turned enemies. Strangers, all of them, trying to kill each other.

“Try to erase them,” he orders tonelessly. It has only been one day and twelve hours since those mails went out, and his former team mates have been known to be unavailable whenever he tried to reach out to them for longer times than that. No reason to think that, for once, they received and opened a message from him immediately. Especially now.

“Affirmative,” FRIDAY says, which has him perking up. Although too soon. “I have successfully deleted the mails to Dr. Banner and Thor.”

Silence follows in which Tony waits, hoping for her to go on, only that she does not. “What about the rest?”

“Sent and received. Although I am encountering some difficulties in accessing some of their accounts. They seem to be protected by above average security protocols.”

FRIDAY is designed to have no problems with ‘above average’, so whatever they are dealing with must be good, indeed. They certainly move fast, Tony thinks, going from international fugitives to gaining someone’s serious protection.

“I can keep probing, although I might not go undetected.”

“Leave it for now,” he says, tone clipped. At some point he has to think about this whole mess, but all he wishes for is to rest. “Get the workshop powered up.”

Falling into bed sounds enticing – and too good to be true. As usual, he needs to set things in motion before he is ready to face the public again. Most of all, he needs to repair the suit. Already, he feels naked without it, open for attack. There is the matter of his wounds, too – bruises and broken ribs, the thrumming headache stemming from a concussion, the numbness still spreading through his left arm – but what he needs to address first is the armor. How often has he been told he is nothing without it, and now he might finally believe it to be true.

Not bothering to hide the stiffness in his gait, Tony walks inside. He barely wastes a glance at his surroundings and still feels its emptiness echoing in his bones. No one else is here. Nothing but forgotten remnants of lives tossed aside with barely a thought. And, of course, a man-shaped hole going down and down, which he will have to try and fill. Both in Vision and his floor.

First order of the day, however, he thinks as he steps into his workshop, stopping for a moment to let the familiarity of this place wash over him: construct a new casing for the arc reactor. He cannot have it break that easily again. Building armor and walls – that, at least, is something he has not a terrible track record of. Everything else, he will deal with as it comes.

* * *

Three days of peace is all Tony gets. The world is still in an uproar, and he barely knows where to start. The Accords, the Avengers, the Winter Soldiers, Ross, SI. A lot of capital letters giving him a constant headache. And that is without all of the personal tidbits thrown in. The suit, his wounds, Rhodey’s legs, his sudden loss of allies, the complicated wreck that are his emotions. No one has declared him dead yet, so at least he has not yet had to step out into public and don a mask he has not quite reassembled.

When he leaves his workshop that night, his heart stops cold upon finding another person in the hallway to the living quarters. At first he thinks he has pushed himself too hard, causing him to hallucinate. Or maybe it is his due punishment that his nightmares come to life, now that he has not died yet again when he perhaps should have.

The other man, however, seems as shocked to see him, one hand half outstretched, an expression of disbelief on his face.

“Tony?” The question is asked quietly, careful, as if to not disturb the silence of this place. It is also as if he does not quite expect an answer.

Tony, on the other hand, has to carefully keep himself from falling apart, right there in the hallway of the compound he has built. Visual hallucinations he could understand; he has had nightmares for most of his life and knows they can come to haunt him even when he is awake. But that voice. He is sure his mind could not make it up like that. Not gentle, not relieved. Not when he usually hears it shouting in his ears, cold, commanding, shattering his world.

“Rogers,” Tony says, the word falling from his lips like a stone, ready to pull him down. And it is him, right down to the carefully combed hair. At least the stripes are missing from his outfit.

“You – how – I,” Rogers stammers, falling over the syllables.

Once it would have filled Tony with satisfaction, witnessing Rogers appear less than perfect. Now though, he is holding onto himself with all he has. In a show of impatience, he taps his foot, hoping it is not obvious that he needs to move somehow unless he wants to break into a run and flee.

“You are not dead.” Although not posed as a question, the words end in an upward lilt, pleading for confirmation nonetheless.

Tony is not in the mood to be merciful. “Guess that puts a hitch in your plan to return as the golden boy. But don’t worry, I won’t stand in your way.” The smirk on his lips is a hollow facsimile of his usual confidence, as he feels more like snarling than smiling. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Rogers flinches as if he has any right to feel hurt. The hand he had still stretched out falls listlessly back to his side.

Tony uses this chance to take the Captain in. He looks exhausted. Not in the way Tony does, still bruised and moving cautiously as to not aggravate his wounds. But weary in the same, bone-deep way that marks everyone who has lost a fight and expects to keep losing. Tony does not know what that look is doing on that face, cannot even begin to explain why Rogers thinks he has any right to come here and look like he wants to reach out for Tony. Not to crush, this time but, worse maybe, to reconcile, although they are far beyond that.

“FRIDAY,” he snaps, wishing he could turn his back on Rogers and ignore him. “How did he even get in here? We need to go over your security protocols.”

“Captain Rogers is on the list of approved –”

“Of course,” Tony cuts her off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He should not take his sudden fearful anger out on FRIDAY, the one person he is reasonably sure would not betray him, if only because he has written her code himself. And this is not her fault. When they left the compound, Rogers had still had a home here. There had still been a chance of them coming back together. “For now, restrict access to everyone. Case by case authorization only.”

“Understood, boss. Protocol Shipwreck activated.”

“Tony,” Steve tries again, reminding Tony’s rapidly fraying nerves that he is not yet safe. A lockdown is not that efficient when the enemy is already inside the walls.

“What are you still doing here?” Only years of business meetings and galas and being the media’s favourite whipping boy ensure that his voice is even, containing no trace of the tremble he feels taking hold of him.

Still, Rogers cocks his head to the side like he knows exactly what Tony is hiding.

“We need to talk,” he says, weeks too late. Where was this eagerness when they could have still salvaged things? “About what you said in the video.”

Cursing his bad luck – because of course Rogers would read the one mail he should not while ignoring most of the others Tony has ever sent – Tony forces himself to meet Roger’s gaze head on.

“Nope,” he says, almost flippant if it were not for the tangible tenseness underneath, “we definitely don’t.”

“But –”

Tony knows the kind of arguments Rogers makes, and it usually ends with them chewing over facts that are news to no one; what an utterly atrocious kind of human being Tony is, selfish and self-righteous and narcissistic and overall too busy with himself to care about anyone else. This is exactly the reason why he was supposed to be dead when anyone watched those videos, confessions almost.

“I get that it wasn’t real,” he says, his voice an ugly blend of self-deprecation and pain. “I bet you had a nice laugh about it, right? Stark and his ridiculous illusions. _Family_? Really? What did I think?” The last parts he adds quietly, only to himself, but nothing escapes Roger’s hearing.

“This is not –”

“Get out,” Tony orders firmly, hiding his shaking fingers behind his back although it leaves him open, unprotected.

And Steve, stubborn as he is, stands his ground, eyes narrowed and feet planted hip-width apart as to fall easily into a position to attack. “I will not.”

Just like that, Tony’s anger freezes inside his veins. There is that look in Roger’s eyes again. Less murderous, maybe, but still as unyielding. All that is missing is the shield in his hands, ready to strike. Down and again, cracking his faceplate and the protective layer over his heart, breaking what has once been his lifeline, his brainchild.

Distantly, he hears someone talking but he cannot make out words over the roaring in his ears. Every breath is laboured, pulling at his bruised ribs like hands trying to rip open his chest. Black encroaches his vision until all he sees is icy blue telling him that _I can do this all day_ , and crimson staining the snow. Something touches his shoulder. When he looks he expects metal and a shining red star, but it is only skin and flesh and careful control rolled into one. The kind of control that can kill any man set against it.

A voice tells him to calm down, and Tony would have laughed were his teeth not clenched impossibly tight. He knows that voice, knows it as the narrator of each of his new nightmares, mingled with old pains.

 _Big man in a suit of armor,_ he hears instead of, “Tony, are you all right? Tony!”

 _You better stop pretending you’re a hero,_ instead of, “Breathe with me, Tony.”

The roaring intensifies. Losing consciousness could almost be a comfort, if he did not feel snowy concrete pressing into his back and vibranium inching into his chest. He cannot do anything against that, however, just like he never seems to be able to do anything when it really matters. He thinks maybe this is it, maybe it is for the best. The tension leaves his body as his grip fails him, and that is when he stops fighting and lets the current wash him away.

* * *

When Tony wakes, he is cold. After Afghanistan it has taken him years to shake the coldness that had settled into his bones after the endless desert nights. Even then, he could never escape the pictures flaring in his mind at random occasions. Anything was enough to bring him back there; a gush of cold wind, rain, the mere sight of a bath tub. Even the bright Malibu sun could not weed it out completely.

The coldness of Siberia has a different quality to it; it burns more with less effort. Ever since making his way out of that bunker, he has felt it settle around his bones like a mockery of his armor, encasing him with a relentlessness he cannot even hope to fight.

Forcing his eyes to open, Tony finds himself in his bed, light filtering in through the shades. He cannot remember laying down, which has him frowning. The list of things he has to take care of urgently is long enough that he would not forego it in favour of sleep of all things. Not to mention that his body feels like he is still in that bunker, instead of already a week away from it. A week in which he has not rested much, true, but at least a week in which he has not heaped further abuse on his wounds.

How did he – movement to his right has his heartbeat rising immediately. Snapping his head up so quickly that his vision swims, he recognizes the figure sitting next to his bed nonetheless. Tall, broad shoulders, the frown that seems to be reserved solely for Tony.

“You’re awake,” Rogers says. There is something in his voice that Tony might have once thought to be relief.

He sits up, bringing space between them without caring what he looks like. Rogers has seen fear in his eyes before and it has not stopped him. He has been laid bare. There is no more use in hiding.

“What are you doing here?” Tony croaks. His throat feels dry and raw, like the words have clawed their way out.

“I –” Rogers looks down, avoiding his gaze. Not even a month ago, Tony might have fallen for that – this expression of ashamed hesitation – before he knew what good a liar their perfect Captain America is. “You had a panic attack.”

Tony remembers, fragments at least, although that is all he needs. He has dealt with this long enough to know that he need not bother forcing the memory. This is something he will not escape either way. The potential for drowning in it again and again is there, lodged firmly inside his chest.

“Why are you _still_ here?” Tony rephrases his question, marvelling at the fact that he can glare at Rogers without crumbling. He suspects that will change as soon as the other man is moving again, towering over him, giving up this wretched act.

“I could not leave you there,” Rogers says, earnest and caring in a way they have seldom been with each other.

Tony snorts bitterly. He would like to roll his eyes, but he cannot let his gaze wander, cannot stand the thought of looking away. That is when he realizes that Rogers must have carried him here, tucked him into bed while he had been utterly vulnerable. The thought causes his skin to prickle uncomfortably, hairs standing to attention. More so, Rogers had sat by his side the whole time he was out. Not long ago that would have meant safety. Now it makes Tony frantic, wanting to look at his chest, searching for an arc reactor that is not embedded there anymore and therefore cannot be broken. It aches like it nonetheless.

“Well, I’m awake now, so you can be on your merry way,” he moves his hands in what he hopes looks like dismissal, “I’m sure you’ve got places to be, adoring fans to meet.” Before he can rattle on, he is, mercifully, interrupted.

“Tony.” Again that tone, again that disappointment. It has Tony wanting to scream in frustration. “We still need to talk.”

“Rogers,” he answers, putting all the apathy he can muster into the name. There is a surprising amount of it, considering he is already riding on the edge of another panic attack. “We really do not.” He truly has no desire to reminisce about long dead camaraderie.

“The messages you sent –”

Tony derives a certain satisfaction by stomping all over the Captain’s woeful words. “Were a mistake. You were never meant to get these. And, obviously,” he smirks, wide enough to make his face hurt; funny to think he could once do this all day, “they are outdated. I recorded them before I knew how we were really standing with each other. So, sorry for the bother, I guess.”

Tony makes to get out of the bed, but Rogers stands up first. Already conditioned, his lungs refuse to work properly again as he backs against the headboard, staring ahead. It must be pathetically obvious how Tony feels, because Rogers winces and all but falls back into his seat, sitting closer to the edge now, still appearing like he might reach out, but less like he will strike. Tony would laugh if he could, but the damage is done.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Rogers says. He sounds so honest that Tony would love nothing more than to beat the expression off his face. Only that he can still feel how well that worked out the last time.

“Apologies aren’t much worth if everyone knows you’d do everything all over again.” His voice is surprisingly calm, considering he is so tense that he can almost feel himself trembling all over.

“I wouldn’t –”

“He’s your friend, remember?” Tony does not want to go there again, does not want to relive that scene every waking moment on top of his nightmares. “Look, I don’t know what point you think you have to prove, but contrary to public opinion I can back down when I’m beat. Even if I could, I wouldn’t come after you and Barnes anymore. I’ll tell Ross as much too as soon as I can’t get away with hiding in here anymore. And, while there is not really a point to it anymore, I guess, I’ll officially resign from the Avengers. Congrats,” he smiles hollowly, a dead man’s grin, “you’ve won.”

“This isn’t about winning,” Rogers says, quietly but insistent. He is leaning back in his chair, almost as if to give Tony space, but he has never done that before so it must be his imagination.

“Of course it is, but I don’t care what you call it. Doing the right thing. Taking down the bullies. Being the hero. Saving the day.” Tony shrugs, ignoring the pain it sends through his shoulder. Maybe he should get that looked at, after all. “Fact is: you did it. I’m done.”

Rogers makes to answer, but Tony does not want to hear anything more. He shakes his head and finally does get up, ignoring the grey seeping into his vision when he stands.

“No need to beat a dead horse,” he says as he turns to leave, keeping himself carefully straight. It takes effort to not show how much it costs him to turn his back on his one time friend. “I trust you’ll find the exit on your own.”

He closes each door he brings between himself and Rogers, laughing quietly at himself because it is not as if the wood offers much of a barrier between them, but he can appreciate the symbolic act of it. Once he is in his workshop, however, he has FRIDAY activate lockdown and that is when he can breathe again.

For a minute he allows himself to slump, eyes closed and teeth clenched against the urge to scream. Then he straightens, carefully shakes out his trembling fingers, and gets to work.

* * *

Contrary to his expectation, Rogers is still there when Tony emerges from the workshop two days later, coated in sweat from another panic attack or two and still unbearably tired, but altogether more in control, now that he has had the chance to bury his mind in tech and the impossible task of fixing this mess.

He stumbles more than walks into the kitchen, and opens his mouth to bless FRIDAY when he smells freshly brewed coffee. In his exhaustion, he is halfway to the cupboards to get a cup before he notices the figure sitting hunched over at the table. Once he does, however, he cannot focus on anything else.

“Ste –” his addled brain has him say before he catches himself. “Rogers. What are you still doing here?” It feels like he has been asking the same question over and over again. Why can Rogers not leave him alone? Why haunt him still, even after everything has been said and done?

The Captain merely looks at him in silence for a minute. Like he used to do before, full of concern, looking for wounds and signs of imminent exhaustion. The familiarity of it has goose bumps rising on Tony’s arms and fire sparkling under his crushed sternum. What right does Rogers have to look at him like that? Like nothing happened. Like they have not stared each other down over drawn lines on a battlefield.

“We haven’t talked yet.”

“We haven’t – what?” Tony thinks he might have misheard. “And what did we do yesterday? It sure as hell wasn’t throwing punches again, because, trust me, I would have noticed another couple of broken ribs.”

Rogers’ shoulders fall. He looks comically small, sunken in on himself like that, and it does not quite fit with the picture of him looming over Tony, although he will not fall for that misconception again.

“The day before,” the Captain mumbles and it is only because every fibre in Tony’s body is wired to maximal attention that he hears it at all.

“What?”

“The day before yesterday,” Rogers says, not much louder than the first time but more cowed. “You were in your workshop for two days.”

If possible, Rogers gets even smaller when Tony scoffs in disbelief. “So what? Surprise, that’s what I’ve always done and you didn’t break me enough to keep me from it.” It is almost cathartic to unload his anger onto Rogers like that, throw it into his face that, thanks to the serum, there is not a single visible mark left on his body, while Tony is still limping and breathing with exaggerated care to avoid upsetting his ribs.

“I hope you’re not waiting for an apology for making you wait,” he continues, wonders where he has mustered the maliciousness from when all he feels is panicked and scared, “because I definitely remember telling you to get out.”

Rogers nods but does not immediately answer, so Tony uses the small reprieve to get himself some coffee. Thanks to his carefully designed coffee machine, it is perfectly brewed and steaming hot. The first, greedy gulp burns his tongue, which is such a familiar thing that he almost relaxes. He drowns the first cup quickly, hoping the caffeine will do its work soon. Some confrontations should not be had with an exhausted mind. Refilling the cup, Tony turns back to face the table where Rogers sits, quietly watching him. At some point during the past minutes, he has given up his hunched posture and straightened his back into a more familiar picture.

“I’m not leaving,” he declares, all righteous stubbornness, the moment Tony’s attention is back on him.

Something akin to helplessness spreads through Tony. “Why not?” he asks, clutching the cup in his hands. “What else do you want me to do? I’m done.” That feels like a promise on his tongue. Or a plea. “We’re done.”

“Maybe we’ve all made mistakes and I don’t want to leave it like that.”

Tony watches him, his whole body unbearably still for one who used to be full of motion. He cannot even begin to grasp the enigma that is Steve Rogers, how he can go from murderous to conciliatory in a matter of weeks, or moments, that is. If that is the response his little farewell-video has evoked, he should have sent them out sooner. If not for the fact that there are still more truths out in the open than he is strictly comfortable with. And, of course, that none of this makes any sense.

“Our mistakes are made,” Tony says matter-of-factly, like he does not regret any of it, although he suspects Rogers can look right through him, judging on the way his jaw twitches. “I’d prefer if we stopped before we make everything worse.”

“We could also make things better.”

Laughter rises like bile in Tony’s throat and when it spills out it is as brittle as the shards of the arc reactor. “What would _we_ know about better?” he mutters under his breath, before shrugging the thought off like an unwanted touch. It is perhaps unfair to drag Captain America of all people down to his level. Recent events notwithstanding, Rogers has always been striving for _better_ , making it so that everyone could be the best they could in the best possible circumstances. Tony himself, on the other hand, has always been a lost cause. “I don’t see how we can.”

“We cannot simply give up,” Rogers leans forwards in his seat, embarrassingly eager. “Especially not if what you said in the video was true.” Neutrality has never been in Rogers’ nature, so of course there is reproach in his voice. A month ago, Tony might not have even blamed him for that, since he has made an art of lying to people and keeping his thoughts to himself. Now, however, it has him bitter.

“I know I’m not the shining example of an upstanding citizen,” he says scathingly, not quite sure whether that tone is directed against Rogers or himself, “but are you really suggesting I would lie there? When I was sure I would never have to face you again after you’ve seen it?”

The idea had been a thing of naivety, truly. If they never believed him when he was alive, why would some video, recorded when he was sleep deprived and somewhat desperate, change anything?

“Why not tell us?” Rogers asks with honest disbelief. It should not be surprising that he does not understand it, since he has never held back any thought or emotion. How nice it must be to still be able to trust that the world can shape itself after the image he has built in his head, that there is goodness around them and that he deserves it. “If we are a good thing, why keep from us how you felt?”

“Because,” Tony roars, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice, “this way I never had to find out these feelings were not reciprocated.” He winces in the silence that falls heavily between them, focussing on the coffee in his hand as if it holds an answer to their situation.

“They were,” Rogers says quietly and flinches when he notices his faux-pas. He corrects himself, but it is already too late. “They _are_.”

 _So was I_. Tony is sure he is not the only one hearing that echo. From the looks of it, it does not hurt only him either.

“It’s just,” Rogers runs a hand through his hair, more a sign of his frustration than the sigh that is crossing his lips, “all of this could have been avoided if we had only talked.” Naivety, again.

“Could it really?”

Tony is not in a forgiving mood. He seldom is, truth be told. But this – he and Rogers have always clashed, have always disagreed about almost anything they have ever argued about. How Howard could have gotten along with Rogers is quite frankly a mystery to Tony, because despite their differences, Tony has learned almost everything he believes about their world from his father; how to navigate the sea of sharks that is the public, how to keep his thoughts hidden, how to never trust anyone but himself. All of that could not have developed only after Captain America went down in the Arctic.

“I should have told you about your parents.” There it is. Such a little thing; but years too late. They had already fallen into that particular trap.

Tony nods, then shakes his head, unwilling to deal with those feelings right now. They might have managed to avoid Siberia if Rogers had only been honest, but the real problem is rooted much deeper. “This is about more than that.”

“The Accords, yes.” In that moment, Rogers looks as tired as Tony feels. Strangely, he derives no satisfaction from that. He has always liked it when they were on the same side, seldom as it happened.

“The one time I wanted to play by the rules.” Tony chuckles bitterly, staring at his coffee to avoid Roger’s eyes. “Something you tried to get me to do for years, and then it’s you stepping out of line. You’ll excuse me if I say I’m not sure how I could have followed that.”

“We should have stood together,” Rogers answers. Which, actually, does not say anything, does not shift the blame to either of them, does not provide a solution either.

“You are actually right there.” Tony catches the Captain by surprise with that. Maybe there is still hope that they could both learn not to lash out immediately when things are not going their way. “But the Accords are just another symptom. It all comes down to trust.” He smiles, tasting the bitterness of it on his tongue. “Or the lack of it, in our case.”

“What has trust to do with signing that abomination?” Gone is the conciliatory mood, crushed between Rogers’ clenched teeth.

Tony closes his eyes against the sight of it, but catches his heartbeat rising at listening to Rogers’ breath in his vicinity without seeing him. The past weeks have truly done a number on him.

“You might be good out in the field, tactical wonder child. But politics? That’s my playground.” Somehow, Tony manages to keep his tone even, as much as he wanted to shake some sense into Rogers over this for a thousand times. They all have their specialties, so why could they never accept that, aside from building stuff, he also knows how to navigate the media and politics better than any of them? “But instead of acknowledging that you cannot know best about everything and trust that _I_ know what I’m doing, you just decided to take your thick head right through the wall, no matter the consequences.”

“The Accords are wrong,” Rogers thunders. He sounds so much like a child throwing a temper tantrum, that Tony does not even flinch at the sudden volume,

“You did not even _read_ them,” he shoots back coldly. He wonders why they are having this discussion now, when it is all too late already.

“They gave us three days,” Rogers insists petulantly. “That’s not exactly enough time to decide whether or not we want to become leashed by politicians.”

Eyebrows raised, Tony settles back against the counter. He does not quite manage his usual, careless posture, but if this is going to grow into another argument, he will need something to lean on. Already he can hear blood rushing in his ears.

“It obviously was enough time for you to decide that there was no room at all for compromise.”

“Peggy –” Rogers starts, and just like that Tony sees red and interrupts him.

“Don’t you dare put this on a dead woman’s head. Peggy would have told you to _think_ before you acted.” That is, at least, what she always told him, along with a myriad of other pieces of advice. He had grown into listening to her. Roger, on the other hand, seems to still only hold his own council. “But you have decided to go against this the moment Ross stepped into the conference room.”

Predictably, Rogers rises to the challenge. “Do you actually want to be under the control of someone like him?” For a moment he looks like he is going to stand but mercifully does not.

“No,” Tony snaps and means it with all his heart. He knows Ross’ type, knows that men like him never do anything for the good of anyone else. “But one hundred and seventeen countries decided to get together because people – the very people we were trying to protect – are afraid of us, of what we can do. They gave us a chance to negotiate there, and you blew it. Next time they’re coming after us, they won’t ask this nicely.”

Something in Rogers deflates, although he does not quite back down but speaks as if they are not on differing sides here. “And that makes it okay? They don’t know what’s out there, they don’t stand in defence against it. We do.” He looks at Tony imploringly and Tony finds he does not want to look away. “So why would you let them dictate us what to do?”

“Because the safest hands are our own, yes?” Tony says, something that could have been dark amusement tinting his voice if not for the faraway look in his eyes, the memory of exactly those hands poised to strike, unwavering.

Rogers must know what he means, because he recoils, blinking at Tony like he had been the one striking out. “I’m sorry.”

What is worse than the crushed feeling in his chest, is that Tony believes him. Of course Steve would be sorry. Not enough to not do it again, but yes, let them just put their feelings out there. Tony is so good with that.

“Me too, in case you were wondering.” He sounds flippant, not at all apologetic. For once, though, it does not raise the Captain’s ire. For once, they look like they understand each other.

Then, naturally, Rogers has to go and ruin the moment. “What about Bucky?”

The only reason Tony does not groan is because he sees his mother in front of him again, feels the hand around his throat like she must have, erasing all sound but the heartbeat, loud and panicked, in his ears.

“Brainwashed,” he forces out between clenched teeth, “wasn’t him, right? Just don’t bring him around for the next family meeting.” The words fall from his lips even as he fights to stay rooted in the presence.

Tony wants to argue about this even less than about the Accords. He has had time to think about it; first in Siberia as he lay in the cold, gathering the strength he needed to get up again, then while making his way home, while catching up with everything he had missed. Yes, Rogers is right. The gun is not to blame but the hand that pulls the trigger; people have told him that so often after he shut down SI’s weapon production. But he can understand Wanda better now. Things are different when they are personal.

“Tony,” Rogers says and it helps pulling him back into the relative safety of the kitchen, no matter that Tony does not want to admit it. But, of course, Rogers has to keep speaking. “It is okay to be hurt.”

Anger has always been the best cure for panic, Tony has found, and it does not fail him this time either. “As long as I keep it inside my head, right?” he spits out. “Because you can say everything you want and keep the rest secret, while we mere mortals –”

“You did not just _say_ anything,” Rogers exclaims, whole body growing tense again, which would have had Tony cowering were he not seething. “You threw the first punch.”

“You _lied_ to me.”

“Well, you’re not the best at communicating either, right?”

It is only a small movement, but when Rogers straightens, same old self-righteousness shining through, Tony gives in.

They are both wrong, and they are both right. Most of all, Tony is tired. Tired enough that he finds himself thinking it might have been better if Steve had not stopped, if he had not opened his eyes again in that bunker long after the two super soldiers were gone. He would not have to deal with the aftermath, then, of everything he cherished falling apart.

He raises the all but forgotten cup to his mouth and drinks, slowly, to gain time to sort through his thoughts.

“Where is Barnes now?” Tony finally asks, and almost manages not to sound afraid of the answer. The compound is in lockdown, but it feels like the Winter Soldier is the sort who could appear out of thin air right now. Tony is sure he would not manage to face the two super soldiers together again.

Steve still looks ready for a fight but something in Tony’s face or voice must have soothed him, because when he answers, his demeanour is gentle again.

“He decided to – to be put back on ice.” It is obvious the thought hurts Steve. To have found his best friend again, only to lose him soon after. Tony tries to hide his relief at that and probably gets away with it, because Steve is looking anywhere but at Tony.

“Wouldn’t have thought him to be the sensible kind.” Tony raises his hand immediately, guarding off the protests he knows is coming. “I was thinking about BARF.”

It is perhaps too abrupt a change in topic, for Steve just glances at him in confusion. “BARF?”

“Binary-augmented –” Tony waves dismissively, “it’s a thing I made. It thought it could maybe help to counter the conditioning.”

The sudden distrust in Steve’s eyes cuts deeper than the anger before, although Tony guesses that is what they are now. Truly an empire crumbled. But here they are, a week after they tried to kill each other, together in the kitchen they have shared countless meals in, talking almost like adults for once. Nothing has been broken here yet. That is almost enough to ignore the fact that nothing is quite mended either.

“When did you think of that?”

Of course. Steve’s suspicions are not completely unwarranted. There has not been much opportunity for Tony to think of Barnes in neutral terms. Why would he offer to help his parents’ murderer?

“When Zemo managed to turn him back into the Soldier with only a couple minutes of conversation. I read up on everything SHIELD has gathered on Hydra’s conditioning, made some educated guesses.” Tony shrugs like it is no big deal, like he has not spent nights pondering that particular problem ever since they found out who the Winter Soldier really is, all so Steve might rest easier. Because that is the kind of idiot Tony is.

“And you’re still offering?” Like a child expecting an offered sweet to be pulled away, Steve looks at him, imploring, as if Tony were in the habit of changing his mind once it is made up.

“I cannot guarantee anything,” Tony says, grudgingly, because he truly cannot and because it feels like giving up further to hand the Captain hope so easily.

“Why?” Steve asks and leans back in his seat, wary, perhaps, of the answer he will get.

And there are many things Tony could have said, some of them not even lies. The simple truth, however, is that he fixes things; he applies his mind to a problem and does not rest until it is solved. That is as much a curse as it is a blessing.

“Everyone deserves choices.” He does not say _chances,_ much less _second chances_ , but _choice_. With his mind wiped and his body honed to one purpose only, Barnes did not have room to make any choices of his own.

Also, and he mercifully keeps that to himself, if BARF were successful and Barnes back in control, that would basically mean that the Winter Soldier is dead. It might not be as satisfying as to shoot him with the armor’s repulsors, but he could not kill anyone’s mother ever again. Barnes could, true, but then he would have no excuse anymore, at least, and Tony would be justified in killing him in return.

“I -” Steve starts but trails off, unsure perhaps what to do with that sudden turn of events. “Thank you.”

Tony does not acknowledge that. Swallowing the last cold dreg of coffee, he asks, “So, when are you leaving?”

“You’re not coming with me?” Any other time, Tony would have laughed at the surprise in Steve’s voice. Now, though, he simply stares at him incredulously.

“Where? To your exile? Back to the rest of the Avengers who still want to kill me?” He spats out the words like they mean nothing and watches somewhat satisfied as they settle heavily on Steve’s shoulders. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll be busy keeping SI from collapsing after our little stunt.”

“The others don’t want –”

Tony talks right over the lies leaving Steve’s mouth. “Have you heard what the media calls it? A _civil war_. Hah. I bet they’re disappointed that all of us are still standing.” He looks down. “More or less.”

Again, Steve flinches. “I’m sorry about Rhodey,” he says, sounding completely earnest, which makes it even harder to swallow. “How –”

“No time,” Tony says decidedly, pushing himself away from the counter and taking care not to wince when his ribs protest. As he refills his coffee cup, he pretends he is not keeping careful watch of Steve’s every movement. “I’ve got work to do. Several people will not be pleased that I’m still alive and kicking. And you should probably wait until it’s dark before you’re leaving. I’ll send BARF to T’Challa once I’ve figured out the needed parameters.”

With that he leaves the kitchen and his erstwhile teammate, his steps fast but not so much that it is obvious he is fleeing. Only days ago the loneliness of the compound seemed terrifying. Now, all but trapped here with Steve of all people, Tony wishes back for empty halls and bleary silence, all so he could let his guard down for one day at least before he goes happily back to feeding himself to the sharks outside.

Steve has gotten what he has come for. Whatever misguided feeling of guilt had him checking his former home for Tony has been appeased by finding the news about his demise somewhat premature. He will even leave with the beginning of a solution for his best friend’s problem. No need to terrorize Tony any further.

Tony wonders why he is not so relieved about that as he should.

* * *

Steve does not leave. Over a week has passed since the Captain’s arrival and a pattern has formed, with which Tony should not be as comfortable as he is, but stranger things have happened to either of them. Whenever Tony stumbles out of his workshop, tired and nowhere near done with dealing with all the problems popping up at every corner, his feet guide him automatically to the kitchen with the promise of coffee in mind. Steve is always there sitting at the kitchen table or cooking, waiting for Tony and making the best of the time until Tony has downed his coffee and regained enough energy to shut down the conversation and flee back into his work. Tony is sure, too, that Steve has not left the premises, because he made sure that FRIDAY would not let him back in, although he begins to suspect that the two of them have made a deal of their own, because the thought of Captain America waiting patiently at that table for Tony to appear, day in, day out, is too ridiculous for even his sleep deprived brain to believe. Oftentimes there is also food waiting, on top of the coffee, and when Steve talks it is about little things. And also some big things, but always in a way that has them actually conversing instead of just arguing.

Pepper comes by, too, after Tony reveals that he is, in fact, not dead, and Steve is not foolish enough to meet her head on, but waits somewhere until the screaming stops and the sobbing subsides before he comes out, apology ready on his tongue.

Afterwards, Tony makes his first joke, asking whether nursing their aching cheeks together, each adorned by the same petite, red handprint, counts as a team bonding activity. Steve laughs before he says he would rather avoid the circumstances that had them ending up in this situation this time around.

Tony still believes him.

Maybe that is why he does not threaten Steve with chasing him out anymore, not as obviously at least. Or maybe it is because Steve has talked him through two more panic attacks, although it could be argued that Tony might have less of them if the subject of his nightmares was not walking around freely in his home.

“You cannot stay indefinitely,” Tony says one night. For once, Steve looks tired too, and Tony wonders whether FRIDAY woke him up so he could be there when Tony arrives in the kitchen, or whether he is plagued by his own set of nightmares. Both is definitely possible.

“Why not?” No judgement in Steve’s voice, no reproach. Just curiosity. That is new, too. Steve had always been full of wonder where their world is concerned. But everything involving their job, their mission – there he liked to be in command, ordering instead of asking.

“Your team needs you,” Tony answers simply, no tangible resentment behind the words. The media loves to comment on how Tony likes to hold grudges. In truth, he does not. If something cannot be fixed, he goes on. Their world is full enough of problems to which solutions can be found, so it would not do to dwell on the ones that do not.

“Then,” Steve says, a small smile playing on his lips, “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> If you spot any mistakes or want to tell me your thoughts, please leave a review.
> 
> And if anyone's interested, I've also written most of Tony's video messages to the other Avengers and could add them.


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